


All Your Fault

by fuckyeahcaptainpan (ChipmunkCharles)



Series: Captain Pan One-Shots [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Drinking, F/F, F/M, first try at 2nd person, married!killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChipmunkCharles/pseuds/fuckyeahcaptainpan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's not much one can say about what happened behind closed doors in the last year, but something is for certain the outcome is all your fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Fault

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [All your fault](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4740230) by [PruePhantomhive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PruePhantomhive/pseuds/PruePhantomhive)



> This is a married!Killian AU that was submitted to me via ahmabird on tumblr. I stayed up Thursday night till 5am (ouch) so good luck. Also, this is me trying out new writing styles and methods, so if it doesn’t seem like my typical writing that is why.

You didn’t mean to hurt them, the woman or the boy. You never thought of them discovering your secret, was it because you believed that they already knew? It had to be obvious, right, that’s what you were thinking. Because why else would you be sitting on the cold, tile ground of your kitchen with a glass of water warm and untouched on the counter over your head?

The woman, Elsa, you were married for a few years maybe a little less, but you loved her, right? At night you would tell her how precious she was and how she was the world to you. Was it all a lie? Did you ever mean it? A little part of you wondered as much, because you married her. You repeated “I do” under the arbor and relished in your Venice honeymoon. You would’ve preferred Belize or the Cayman Islands, but you stomached the Italian language and food for her because you loved her. Then you met the boy.

His name was Peter; he was smart, he knew all your secrets at first glance. He knew you were involved with someone, but the untanned circle on your left ring finger told him it was over. He approached you thinking you were alone, that whoever you were with was leaving or just left. You didn’t tell him how the ring was being sized and polished, so you and your wife could renew your vows. You told him nothing, was it because he didn’t ask, or you didn’t want to tell him? So, you allowed him to flirt with you, you bought him a drink. He kissed you on his apartment building’s stoop, you kissed back. Both of your tongues eagerly battled in the public eye, any neighbor or passing car could’ve seen you.

You fucked him the night Elsa went to visit see her sister, Anna, across state; she asked you to tag along but you said “No”. You explained work is busy this week at the docks and they’ll need the extra help. It was a lie. You fucked him on the couch; you fucked him in the guest room. You fucked him against the wall and in the pool. You fucked him on the kitchen counter right where you’re sitting.

But you can’t take all the credit, because you allowed him to fuck you right back. You allowed him to straddle your waist and take you in your bed and back on that stained sofa. You spread your legs for him once; he wanted to see what it was like from the other end of the stick. You even allowed him to sleep where Elsa slept, his head on her pillow.

Some would wonder how you hid your unfaltering marriage from the boy, but you thought of that yourself before the boy arrived. You hid the picture frames in a box, along with laundry and knick-knacks. He did ask about some of her items, the ones you forgot, you told him your ex-wife hasn’t picked them up yet. He believed your lie with little questions asked.

He left the day before your wife returned, you put everything back to its original place, she didn’t suspect anything. She didn’t noticed how your kisses lost their usual fire, she didn’t realize you never said “I missed you”, she was clueless, or so you thought. She did notice these things though, she just didn’t voice them, but you found that out too late.

She had asked the neighbors about how you were over the week, after you left for work. They told her of an unfamiliar car in the driveway and an extra silhouette in the window. Did you know she about cried when they told her? Did you know she was tempted to leave that afternoon? But then you called like you always do at lunch and she decided talking was better; if she left on a whim she’d never know if in fact what the neighbors saw was a misunderstanding. So, you told her of a boy friend who stayed with you so you weren’t lonely over the week. She figured he was one of your buddies, a pal from work, not an actual boyfriend, and you let her believe that.

You and Peter fucked behind closed doors for one year. Your marriage was crumbling because of it. The late nights out, ignored phone calls, canceled dates; each one was another tally on the roster.

You told Peter you loved him one night on his apartment balcony. You saw how hesitant he was when the words escaped. You knew he was never one for love he preferred the pleasure. It’s not like you were expecting him to say it back anyways, right? You knew the mention of love seemed to always offend him as if he was a young child, instead of a few months from twenty. He would walk away or change the topic, but if one were to prod he would yell and scream or smirk and blow it off some more.

It was the day of your birthday shit hit the fan, but you didn’t know it. You had to have expected it to happen sooner or later? You know, for them to meet. The boy had stopped by your house with a present, a token of how he felt for you. He meant it to be a surprise, he thought you would open the cherry wood door confused then ask his presence, but it was Elsa who turned the knob and greeted him on the porch steps.

Did you know his heart skipped a beat in his chest? Did you know how badly he wanted to run away? Because she stood just inside the house wrapped tightly in a shower robe with cold water dripping down her legs and hair, he knew she spent the night. Did you know how much Peter hurt when the gold and diamond ring glistened in the morning sun off her left hand? Did you know he spotted you behind her walking around the home in only a towel? She had to ask why he was there five times, he lied like you, told her he must have come to the wrong address then he left. Did you know he had to pull over on his way home, because his stomach was flipping and his whole body ached? He felt used.

You never knew he stopped by though, Elsa had said it was a stranger brushing it off with no second thoughts. So, you must have figured Peter forgot your birthday when he never texted or called you, or did you forget about him when your wife opened her legs as your present?  Or when you were the one to lay down with her top? Or when her head bobbed between your thighs? You never once thought of the boy who took an hour to get home when he lived only twenty minutes away.

You secured yourself in your fantasy of happiness for the day. Everything seemed right and perfect, you felt complete. Was it because you forgot about the boy you said you loved or was it because your wife was with you holding your torso in her arms? Did the bliss and familiarity of her body dance on your taste buds and cause your head to spin like the boy’s would the afternoons and evenings you were at his place? Did it feel right?

Elsa expressed the day after how she enjoyed being with you and how you finally seemed happy in the house. You smiled and kissed her like you would every morning, before the boy. Do you remember him? His name is Peter. You realized this halfway to work, so you called him but there’s no answer only dial tone. You called again, voicemail. You texted him a few times when getting gas, no reply. You called again, it says he picked up. No hello was said just the shuffling of movement and shaky breath on the other line.

You tell him about your birthday. You lie and say it would’ve been better with him there. Is this what two loves do to a man, make him a pathological liar? You did’t worry anymore about them seeing through your lies, because they’ve always believed they were the truth. You told him you’ll stop by after work,  hell you suggested getting off early to be with him, but there was no reply so you figured it was no.

When you did arrive at his building and used the key he gave to enter, you find him at his kitchen table. His cold, blank emerald eyes were staring at a motionless glass of milk and an untouched grilled cheese. He appeared lifeless, dead. You waved a hand in front of him, smiling at his acting, but the glare he shot you said he wasn’t acting, it said he was pissed.

He screamed at you in that moment. He spat on your shoes with insults, a raging fire igniting within his orbs.  He yelled how he saw your wife and you, the wedding bands on both your fingers, and the picture frames on the wall that weren’t usually there. He hollered that you were a liar, a cheat, and cheaters never win. The boy danced around the room in a fit of rage, his feet pounding on the ground with each step and his arms flailing for emphasis to his words.

You sat in his chair taking each blow harder than the last. You rested your hands in your lap, sapphire gems cast toward the food. You wondered if this backlash hurts, you went numb when he told you he knew. You felt like time froze and you were stuck like glue to the chair’s dark wood. You zoned out when he asked if you cared how he felt. You closed your eyes to block it all out, but a sharp slap and a view into red-rimmed eyes woke you. You whispered you love him and he slaps you again harder, so you repeat each time ending in another slap.

He bellowed that you won’t win the game that he discovered your move on the board and he was going to block your attack. How else was he to protect the king, protect himself?

He told you to leave, that he is done with you, but you don’t go you kiss him on the mouth, palms holding his face firm against yours. He tried to push you away before giving into the warm, chapped lips. He tasted her though, Elsa, and he shoved you this time, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He whispered for you to leave with the faintest quiver. He cried when you left, but you know that because you heard him in the hall as you leaned back against his door, a few slow tears of your own trickling down your flushed, bruised cheeks.

You told your wife everything when you got home, it’s because you’re drunk. You stopped by the bar so it would be easier and you wouldn’t have to remember the pain and betrayal in her stance or her expression. You took it like a man accepting your fate with the rest of your dignity, and then fall asleep on the couch.

You awoke in the morning alone, with a note saying she’ll gather the rest of her belongings another day. You tried to call Peter, he didn’t answer, but you figured as much. You slept in the guest room for a few days; the divorce papers arrived sooner than you would like. You signed them though in dripping black ink, because it’s for the best.

You emptied the liquor cabinet in four nights, three bottles of wine and four bottles of rum. You’ve never drunk this much in a single sitting before. Were you secretly praying to be poisoned by the sweet liquid, killed in drunken stupor? Or were you postponing the inevitable pain and heartbreak that comes with being sober? You weren’t quite sure.

You’re twenty-eight years and one week old; you celebrated by calling your loves. You called Elsa first, she answered. You two talk for an hour she said she wanted to see you, meet up with you for dinner like the old days. You agreed.

Peter was there when you arrived. He was leaning against the diners chrome finish, a cigarette bud poking through his pink lips. He glared as you walked toward him. You went to speak (maybe an apology), when in range; but you saw Elsa and your words vanished. She explained that the three of you were going to have a talk together over dinner. The boy stomped out the remaining bud with a scoff the grey smoke still enveloping his forward features.

Elsa asked for Peter to tell her his side of the story, he didn’t though. He gave her a pointed stare his dominate nature sparking in his persona. She shuffled in her chair and decided to tell her end first. You could see the slump in the boy’s shoulders as she spoke of their relationship before and after marriage. You watched him flinch when she spoke of your love. You chased after him when he stormed from the table, his long legs striding to his car as quick as possible.

You caught him there. He searched frantically through his pockets for the keys, his previously calm manor frazzled and fringing at the ends. He cursed when the item was not found. You observed his reflection in the driver side window. He was clenching his eyes closed, his bottom lip trembled. You lifted a hand to reach for him, he smacked the limb away.

You told him you’re sorry for what you did; it’s the first time you have. He turned to look at you his composure crumbling like the Berlin wall. He confessed to you more about your birthday, the part he left out before. He spoke of a present he got you, something small and fragile. He said it was an object he could only give in a figurative sense. He explained how that morning, when the sun was rising signaling a new day, he was prepared to let down his walls. He was going to finally give you his entire heart and tell you how much he loved you too.

He then found his keys by your feet and he picked them up. Elsa stood by your side as the boy drove away, watching with you as the red tail lights blended in with the rest on the road. You gave her a fifty to pay for the food, and walked to your own car.

You tore your home apart when you entered. You roared and screeched, yanking photos from walls, objects from shelves; you broke. That’s how you ended up here on the kitchen floor peering into space pondering if you were the one hurting more than them, pondering if you were the one who had died completely inside. They may feel like glass shattered by the bottom of your shoe now, but at least they still have a life attached to their pulse. They will find new love you're one-hundred percent certain; but you will die rotting in this empty, wrecked house knowing it’s  _all your fault_  that you’re alone.


End file.
